Ditto with the painting of the Rainbow Mountains I’d toured in Gonsu. I’m a shit painter with zero understanding of shading, and I don’t need any reminders that I suck at it.
A slice of dark indigo catches my eye, and I select the frame with the yarn project I started six months ago. It’s going to be my rendition of the Milky Way in the West Texas night sky.
I chose the nubby dark-blue background based on the color of Boone’s eyes.
Pathetic, but it’s calling to me.
I take a while to peruse the details I’d already woven in and appreciate that I pinned notes for myself to the corner. I’ve already added stars to outline the general shape of the Milky Way in the dark Texas skies, and now I can’t wait to fill in the rest.
As I get lost in the textures underneath my fingers, a text notification goes off, and it’s Boone.
Boone: A small hint.
I click on the picture, and it’s a section of a painting. It’s abstract, but the intertwined hands are easy to make out.
Me: I can’t wait to see the rest of it.
While I’m grinning at the screen, a soft knock on the door sets my teeth on edge.
“Yes?”
Holmes lets himself in.
“You okay?” he asks, looking around. His room is neat as a pin, all clean surfaces and right angles. Coming in here gives him anxiety.
I shrug, feeling stupid all over again.
“C’mon. Talk to me, Mav.”
I grip my project, annoyed that his concern is making me emotional.
I recognize his determined stance. Knowing he’s not going anywhere, I ask, “Do you know how shitty it feels to walk into a room and have the conversation come to a complete stop?”
Holmes opens his mouth to answer, but I’m not done.
“I know there’s a lot you can’t tell me because of your work, but y’all made it pretty clear just now that my presencein my own homeis just one big, damned inconvenience for the big secret organization I’m not a part of.”
Holmes avoids my eyes. “That’s not?—”
I cut him off again. “You seem to forget that you cannot lie to me.” I tap my chest. “So don’t even try.”
He has the temerity to look sheepish and closes his mouth. I worry my top lip, annoyed that I need a minute.
“When I think of how many years I’ve been lied to, not trusted with the truth even after I could tell in here,” I say, digging the tip of my finger into my sternum, “that you were hiding something from me. Something big. And it makes me feel like afucking idiotfor not seeing it sooner.”
Holmes stares at his shoes, not even bothering to correct me for calling myself an idiot.
Telling.
“Anyway, I’ve been put in charge of checking on Mr. Calderone, in case he’s slipped into another depressive episode, and making sure Hopper doesn’t starve for his art. I’m gonna take them both some food and work on this.”
I grab a slim zippered portfolio bag and shove the piece into it. I tug on the zipper so I can leave and am, of course, immediately slowed by snagging the unfinished edge.
Fuck.
I try to pull the snarled-up piece of yarn from the zipper’s teeth, only making it worse.
“Mav…”
